Rebels Fall
by KristieConspiracy
Summary: Oh, Merlin. I knew this was coming - he's famous, he's virtually everywhere - but really. A muggle bookstore? That's meant to be Rose's sanctuary. Written for Tris's Bookshelf Challenge, Prompts- Rebel Spring and This Land Is Your Land (Woody Guthrie). Rated for mild language.


**Challenge: **TrisanaChandler13's _Tris's Bookshelf Challenge _on HPFC; Cheeky Slytherin Lass's _Fanfiction Scavenger Hunt Competition_ on HPFC

**Characters: **Scorpius Malfoy, Rose Weasley

**Prompts: **_Rebel Spring_; lyrics to _This Land is Your Land_ (Woody Guthrie); 40. A could-be-canon pairing

**Word count: **2,074

**A/N: **I swear I didn't intend for these to actually have a plot; but if you want to see the prequels, well. Check out _Not the First Adventure _(1) and _The Charm in the Tapestry_ (2).

* * *

**_Nobody living can ever make me turn back_**  
**_This land was made for you and me._**

_"__This Land Is Your Land__" by Woody Guthrie_

* * *

I'm scratching my nose absently, staring at the line up of muggle books. James Patterson and Dean Koontz are credited for quite a few titles, especially in crime fiction. Stephen King seems to be pretty prolific, too, but when I ask Rose what he's king _of_, she tosses back her long red mane and roars with laughter.

This was twenty minutes ago. I still don't have an answer but, my pride on the line, I grab the most reachable book and seek out the author biography

I'm half finished the bio circa nienteen-ninety by the time Rose speaks to me again, and am actually quite impressed. _Four Past Midnight_ seems to be his thirty-fourth published work, though there's mention of several movies, sort of complicated moving pictures that Rose has never cared for, though I find them quite ingenious, myself. In contrast, she calls them 'pretentious' and 'simple minded'. Doesn't take a genius to work out that her hatred - sorry, 'intense dislike' - is largely due to her fathers' preferences.

"Sorry?"

She groans in mild annoyance, rolling her eyes heavenward as though seeking divine guidance as she tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "Honestly, Scorp, I've said your name a dozen times. What _are_ you reading?"

I hold up the cover compliantly, letting her see the words, bols against the darkness of the cover art. She nods approvingly, smug - of _course_ she's read it. "This King guy seems to be pretty busy."

"Yes, he only stopped writing officially about a decade back. He's still got things to whare, though, which is where _Under the Dome _becomes relevant. Remember back when you were terrified of these places?"

As a matter of fact, I did. "I was _fourteen_, Rose, clueless, not terrified. You lied to mums' face, bribed dad, and then dragged me out into the muffle world to get - what did you call it? Oh, right - _educated_. And started with the largest bookshop in Europe."

"Please, Waterstones Piccadilly isn't _that_ large. Really, Scorpius, there's no need to be dramatic."

"It has eight floors!"

She smirks, her freckles seeming to glisten as she tilts her head up to meet my eyes. "And you say you weren't frightened?"

_Bloody hell, woman,_ he thinks. "What were you going to ask?"

She holds up another book, the first of many from a stack in her arms. "_Rebel Spring_. Buy, or don't buy?"

I peer at the cover. "It says it's the second book in something called the _Falling Kingdoms_ series."

"Does it?" She sounds surprised, turning the book in her hand to look properly. I'm not concerned; this happens all the time in book stores with Rose Weasley. She just picks random books from the shelves, always drawn to them by the title, and holds them out to get my impression of them. She doesn't always agree - she hardly ever does, really - but she does blame me when she ends up with a sequel of a book she doesn't have. "Maybe I shouldn't," she muses, scrutinising the words.

"Rosie?"

Her expression vanishes, her face suddenly closes off, as suddenly as though an inhabitant has drawn the blinds over her mind; a trick I'm sure she picked up from my dad. She lowers the book back to the stack, abruptly tense, and gazes at me.

I shake my head, concerned for her: there's no quick escape when one is in the muggle world. She's been staying at the Manor, and though she's said nothing, I know it's because she's lonely in that tiny apartment of hers. Rose's family, after all, is huge, and none of them live alone. She can't go home, though, barely even dares to write to innocent little Hugo, who's only two years younger than us but seems so naive. She's afraid to, because she thinks that Ronald Weasley would stoop low enough to use Hugo's limited contact with his only daughter to attempt to coax her back.

The sad thing is that, looking at his expression right now, I know she was right to fear exactly that.

Ron Weasley, most impulsive of the Golden Trio, is livid. Even I can see that, and I've never spoken so much as two words to the man. It occurs to me that this man is famous for not thinking and now I'm wondering if he's been even a little remorseful in this past year.

"Rose, what are you doing here?"

There's a flicker in her eyes, and she's pleading with me. It's that glint that makes me do it: Rose Weasley means more than the world to me; I cannot let her suffer. So, silently begging Salazar for a rare demonstration of Weasley restraint from my best friends' father, I answer the question in what is, for me, an incredibly polite tone.

"She's shopping, sir."

His gaze doesn't so much as twitch from the back of her head. "I asked my daughter, Malfoy, not you."

Rose's shoulders stiffen, and I know she'll explode if something doesn't stop her. Forcing my tone to remain steady and calmly pleasant, not daring to reveal my building panic, I focus intently on finding something unobtrusive to say. "Would you like some help with whatever it is you're searching for?"

"I'd _like_ my daughter back." His gaze, withering in its' intensity, is now on me. It's what I want, I know, but that expression is incredibly angry. "What the hell are you doing in a muggle shop, Malfoy? I'd have thought such - such _despondency_ - to be beneath pureblood 'royalty' like you."

_Please, Gregory freaking Goyle is royalty besides the likes of you, you filthy traitor. _"Have I done something to offend you?"

"If this wasn't a muggle store -"

"You'd _what_, dad? Hex him?" Rose's tone is dripping with malice, and I'm starting to realise that his reputation is well deserved. "I'd like to see you try."

He bristles, and I can see where Rose gets her temper. I've fixed my gaze on Rose, though, begging her silently not to turn around, since, if she does, we'll probably all meet our deaths. "Maybe I will, Rose Weasley. Maybe I'll make him as tortured as his father -"

"Oh, you mean like in your second year, _dad_, when you made him eat slugs? Oh, wait, I forgot - he didn't, _you_ did. You were useless back then, too, no wonder no one was surprised when you completely abandoned mum and Uncle Harry."

I flinch at the jab, wincing as the war hero turns red. He's already angry, so when he begins to shout I'm not surprised, and, judging by Rose's expression, neither is she. She's angry, though, as angry as he is, her expression becoming one that I tend to associate with murder.

"You filthy pureblood swine! Where do you and your ferret of a father get off, eh, lying to people like that? You've got no right to tell anyone those things, least of all Rose. What else did you tell her, huh? That my wife's a mudblood, whoring herself to whoever's willing to stoop to her level? That Rose's got no reason to come home? That I deserve to burn in hell? Well?"

I'm saying nothing, mentally correcting myself: Ron Weasley is _not_ just impulsive; he doesn't just 'not think'. No, Ronald Billius Weasley is more than _very_ stupid, like my dad has told me in the past. He's as dumb as a troll, without the filter forced by an inability to form complex sentences. And he has an obvious death wish: dad teases Harry Potter for having a hero complex strong enough to be suicidal, for martyring himself regardless of necessity, but _this_ - this rage exhibited by Ron Weasley - _this_ is what it means to be suicidal.

"Shut up," Rose mutters into the pause, which lasts only long enough to allow him to catch his breath.

"No, who'm I kidding? You wouldn't be so kind. You've probably got her Imperiused, haven't you, to make her choose you pathetic traditionalists over her family? You probably chain her up in the dungeons at night and take advantage of her, don't you? You and your filthy father. Lift the curse so she's completely aware of your dirty, underhanded advances -"

"How dare you!" she finally roars, her hair snapping into my face as she whips her head around. "How _dare_ you speak of him like that! Just because _you're_ a sadistic bastard intent on breaking everything, doesn't mean the people who grew up better off than you, _are_. I don't know what went wrong with _you_, Ronald Weasley, because Grandma got everyone else to turn out like a human being, but you - _you_! You're a _pig_!"

He doesn't look the least bit affected by her rage, except perhaps for a glint of surprise, as though young women don't usually speak out against him. He opens his mouth to snap his own argument, but Rose only shrieks louder, surprising the staring muggles. Honestly, it doesn't shock me at all: I know Rose can be inhumanly loud when she's pissed off, and Merlin help the poor soul who goes up against her when she uses magic. It's never been directed at me, but I know the facts, seen them in action against others, and if Rose Weasley had her wand in reach right now - if she hadn't taken mine and hid them both away in the Manor - then Ron would be dead, or on the verge of dying.

"I left because of _you_, daddy dearest, not because of some stupid bloody Unforgivable. Though what you've done - everything you've said - _that's_ unforgivable. Mister Malfoy has been perfectly lovely to me, thanks very much for your concern - compared to you, he's a bloody _angel_. He dotes on me, you idiot, _absolutely adores_ me, much more than _you_ ever have. I'm _glad_ I left home. Travelling around - on _Malfoy_ money, _much_ better than your hard-earned minimum-wage pittance - I learned what a real family is, how a father _should_ act: _like his only daughter is capable of using her Merlin-given brain_!"

"Rose," I try, gently touching her arm.

"What are you even _doing_ in a bookshop, _father_? As if you care about reading. I'll bet you saw us through the window, didn't you? I bet you thought you could force me to come home. Hell, I bet you deliberately followed me here. You've probably been camped out the front of the Manor in the Potters' invisibility cloak, watching everything you _wish_ you could have, being pathetic as always."

"Rose!" I interrupt again, closing my hand around her upper arm. "Rose, it's time to stop."

She's been glaring at her now purple father, unblinking, but now it breaks. She turns her bright eyes to me, and I can see the need to cry within them. It's not a common look at all, not at all on Rose, but I take the books in one arm to pay for them, keeping my other hand on her arm. I glance at the vivid Ron Weasley, nodding once. "Good day, Mister Weasley. I hope you're satisfied."

Outside, it's starting to rain. I shift the bags of books, alleviating the bite of the handles against my fingers. I wrap my other arm around her gingerly, holding her close. "It's okay, Rose. It'll be fine."

"No, it won't, Scorp. I - I can't believe he said that. I thought..."

"Rose, don't worry about it. It's not like I ever expected him to like me, anyway. Not everyone can handle this." I say it to get a laugh, and I do, though it's rather strained and quite watery, and I get the impression she only let it slip for my benefit. She's already starting to let the tears fall.

"Scorpius, what am I going to do?"

"_We_," I correct, looking up at the endless movement of clouds in the gray sky. "Not just you, but _we_, are going to stick it out. We are going to stay close to each other. We're going to go back to the Manor, to our land, where _he_ can't get to. And then, when you're ready, we'll take the time to talk properly. We're going to work something out."

"You promise?"

I peer down at her, silver eyes meeting blue, to make sure she can see my absolute certainty.

"I _swear_, Rose."


End file.
